


Portrait

by darrenzieger



Series: Gallery [1]
Category: Bob's Burgers (Cartoon)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:35:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28229985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darrenzieger/pseuds/darrenzieger
Summary: Angsty Louise, but with a really good reason, and grounded in my own, and many of my friends', struggles with trauma and mental illness.This will probably be the first of several stories in the same setting (that is, taking place when the Belcher kids are 16, 18 and 20, but not in the Zombie Apocalypse AU of my previous work). Once I've got at least one other story going, I should have a decent title for the series.
Relationships: Louise Belcher/Original Character, Louise Belcher/Rudolph "Regular Sized Rudy" Steiblitz
Series: Gallery [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2067951
Comments: 6
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

Louise sat alone in the Seymour's Bay High School lunchroom. Everyone – friends, strangers, even her brother, Gene – knew to keep a safe distance. She needed the cacophony of the lunchtime crowd to drown out the voices in her head.

She was not insane; she knew the voices weren't real, and they weren't distinct. They didn't tell her things. Certainly they did not give her commands. They were more a persistent rush of powerful, shifting feelings and memories. But she got the message: _Life is a joke. Nothing matters, particularly not you. If you ever did matter, if your life ever did have meaning, it's gone now, and never coming back._

These ruminations were the background noise of her life. They might fade out for a few minutes – during an episode of her family's peculiar brand of insanity, or an engrossing film or TV show – but they always came back. Softly, usually. But in certain places, certain circumstances, they grew loud.

At school, the voices were the loudest, and she struggled to suppress them, but once a day the noise of the overfull cafeteria did the job for her, and she could relax.

Apparently, the new kid had not gotten the memo or was knowingly ignoring it. He did seem to be bracing for battle.

He was tall and skinny, a bespectacled geek straight out of central casting. But for all his clear trepidation, he exuded decidedly un-geeky confidence and poise. Louise sensed his approach and went on yellow alert, a tiger preparing to pounce on an unfortunate antelope. But his mixed signals threw her, and she lost her concentration. What was this creature approaching her, this alpha nerd? And what the hell was he thinking? Did he have a death wish?

She tried to think. She'd seen him around. He was in a few of her classes since he transferred in from out of town in mid-October. But for all his confidence, she'd never seen him talking to anyone; he spent most of his time hunched over his sketchbook, even during classes.

Sure enough, he was carrying the thick, oversized spiral-bound volume under his arm. _Terrific,_ she thought _. He's going to show me his etchings. And on my lunch break, no less. The poor bastard._

He looked so earnest, though. _What the hell, he seems like a decent sort. Maybe I'll let him down easy – bleeding, but not mortally wounded._  
  


The kid sat down across from her and flashed a smile that contained a surprising amount of information. It said “yeah, I know you don't want visitors,” and “yes, I know your reputation,” and “I'm interested enough in you to risk dismemberment.” There was also a distinct undertone of compassion that, frankly, offended her.

But out of curiosity, she let that objection go for the moment.

“Hi,” said the foolish, gangling kid, “I'm Alex. I'm sorry to bother you, but I want to show you something.”

Louise rolled her eyes and sighed, but let him continue.

He pulled a large manila envelope from the back of his sketchbook, opened it, and pulled out a fine black and white photo of Louise against a white background, a portrait she was certain she hadn't posed for. And there was something about it – at _least_ one thing – that got her hackles up, though she couldn't put her finger on it.

“When the hell did you take this?” she growled. “Are you stalking me?”

The kid didn't seem to recognize murder when it was staring him in the face, because his grin became wider, and he chuckled. “No, I'm not stalking you. And I didn't 'take' it. Look closer.”

Louise brought the image closer to her face. She stared into her own eyes for at least ten seconds before the other shoe dropped on her head.

_Holy fuck, it's a drawing. A goddamn photo-realistic pencil drawing._ _How is that even possible?_

Louise, to her own disgust, stammered. “D- d- did you... draw this yourself?”

Alex nodded, now projecting what Louise figured was probably false modesty.

Louise shook her head. She stared at the image again. She could make out individual wispy threads in her fraying bunny ear hat. “Okay,” she said, “I have two questions.”

“Shoot,” said Alex, at infuriating ease.

“One: how? Specifically, how on Earth? I'll also accept an answer to 'how the hell?'”

Alex shook his head. “Honestly? I have absolutely no idea. I don't have any training. I can just... do it. I clear my mind – like, meditate – and try not to pay attention to what I'm doing, because I live in mortal fear of the Centipede's Dilemma. If I start thinking about what I'm doing, I might lose the ability entirely. ”

“So: magic,” said Louise. “Checks out.”

“Yeah, for all intents and purposes,” said Alex, now at even greater ease, which Louise read as smugness.

_He's gonna drop that grin in about three seconds._ She fixed him with a dangerous glare that had the desired effect: it left him momentarily terrified. He regained his bearings, but now he was on guard, and shaken.

“So,” said Louise, in the lowest register of her voice, “number two: _why?_ ”

Once again, the intruder's face was awash in contradictions. The smug grin had returned, but only on one side. His eyes betrayed shyness, even sheepishness, for just a moment, but then rose to meet her gaze. Underneath the fear, he was supremely, gratingly confident.

“Well,” he said, “a few reasons.”

“Such as?”

“Well, first of all, you're just fun to draw. You have great lines and proportions. You're short, but slim, and those bunny ears add like eight very unusual inches to your height. You'd make a great video game character, actually.”

“Um, thanks?” said Louise, not sure whether to be pleased or insulted. She thought about it for a moment, but couldn't sort it out. Still, he obviously _meant_ it as a compliment.

“But it's more than that,” said Alex.

_Oh boy, here it comes. Another guy with a pathetic crush, another round of psychodrama. Goddammit._

He continued. “There's something fascinating about you, something unusual, something a bit... off. I couldn't figure out what it was until I finished the drawing. Like I said, I go into a kind of meditative, almost fugue state when I do these portraits. And sometimes, when I come back to earth, I find that my subconscious has perceived something about the subject that I hadn't noticed consciously.”

Louise was nonplussed. This was not the reveal she'd expected. Also, he hadn't really revealed anything.

She wanted to growl at him again, but was too curious to generate the aggression. “So? What did your drawing tell you about me?” she asked, attempting to drip sarcasm but failing. She was hooked.

Alex's expression dimmed. “That you're the saddest person I've ever seen. It comes out as anger, but, well, look at the drawing. You're smiling, but...”

Enough of this. “You know what? Fuck you. You don't know me. How fucking dare you? You think you can sketch me a few times times and know what's in my soul? You're an idiot. Get the hell away from me.”

Oddly, Alex was not phased by Louise's outburst. He simply observed it with equanimity, perhaps a little sadness. “Okay,” he said. “But keep the drawing. If you ever want to talk again, I'll be around.”

Alex's calm in the face of her rage further infuriated Louise. A casual observer, seeing her out of the corner of their eye, might have had the strong impression that her eyes began to glow and her hat had burst into angry pink flames.

She stood. “And you may _never_ draw me again! Never! You got that? Go art-stalk someone else.”

Risking Louise becoming apoplectic, Alex fixed her with another compassionate smile and nodded. “Will do,” he said, retreating calmly into the universal 'rooba rooba' of the crowded, now gossip-filled lunchroom.

Louise's eyes flashed, but the brief encounter had left her exhausted. She decided to let him live.

For now.

She shoved the portrait back into its manila envelope. When the bell rang, she stood for a long moment by a trash can, trying to throw the damned thing away. Eventually, she relented and stuffed it into her book bag. She would decide its fate later.


	2. Chapter 2

For the rest of the day, it seemed that all eyes were on her. In the halls, in the classroom, in the fucking _bathroom_. For the first time in years, someone had dared disturb Louise Belcher's Fortress of Angry Solitude, and a public spectacle had ensued. Who was that downed electrical cable of a girl going to strike next? Would she lash out at anyone who looked at her funny? Well, apparently not, because everyone was looking at her funny, and the halls weren't running red with blood. Yet.

Worse, she'd given too much away. Become upset. It hadn't been a clean kill; in fact, Mr. tall, dork, and not remotely handsome had walked away unharmed. In 7th period Chemistry, where he sat near the front of the class, and she in back, she could sense the other students' regarding at him with awe. He'd faced the Gorgon and walked away with her head.

Through the entire period, the other students would turn to look at her, then at him, back and forth like a bunch of nosy bobble-heads. Alex ignored them and focused on his sketchbook. Louise flipped them off so many times she worried she'd develop carpal tunnel syndrome. For his part, Alex never once attempted to lock eyes with her.

Good.

After the final bell, Louise found him on the steps of the main entrance, halfway up, sketching trees and traffic. It occurred to her that she'd never seen him do this here before. It wasn't his usual after-school haunt.

He was waiting for her.

Damn him. Now she had to talk to him about what she'd just done on the way out. She knew she could have just passed him by, ignoring him, but something about him compelled her to engage with him. To confess. What black magic fuckery _was_ this?

She sat down next to him, keeping a safe distance of about three feet. He nodded but said nothing and continued to focus on his drawing; he was going to force her to start the conversation herself. Sadist.

_Start with something innocuous._ “How do you sketch cars that are going by so fast?”

Alex did not look up from his pad. “Same way I draw people. I have a photographic memory. That's why you never saw me sketching you. I'd see you in the hall or in class, notice a particular expression or angle of light or something, and draw it later. Eventually, I went through that process enough times to do a portrait.”

Her heart sank. The fucking portrait.

“Listen,” said Louise, “I... I'm really sorry. The picture. I...”

Alex smiled knowingly. Louise had the powerful urge to slap the expression off his stupid fucking dorky face so hard he'd be facing backward the rest of his life. Still, she found herself wringing her hands.

“I tore it up, okay?” she said, too loud. “I'm sorry. You must have worked so hard on it. I just, I kept looking at it and hating it more and more. It was so... presumptuous. Drawing me like you actually knew me when we'd never even spoken...” Louise had run out of remorse. “Ugh, you're such a dick, playing me like that. What were you, trying find some vulnerability, some kind of chink in the scary girl's armor?” She lean in toward him. “Did you do it on a dare? For kicks? For...” Louise was lost for words. So unlike her – anger was her personal muse – but the kid really did have a lot of nerve. She felt violated.

She forced herself to focus. Honestly, Alex didn't seem like the type to play those kinds of sick games. He wasn't precisely guileless, but he did wear his emotions on his sleeve.

“Anyway, I'm sorry. It was a great drawing, and I ruined it.”

Alex put a comforting hand on her back – or rather her backpack. As suicidally bold as he was being, he knew better than to make direct physical contact. “It's okay, don't worry. I've got super-high-res scans of it at home. I scan all my portraits in case something happens to my originals.”

She thought about this for a minute, and decided that the way he phrased it didn't imply that he somehow known ahead of time she was going to rip her own portrait to shreds. That was a relief.

“Honestly,” he said, “I'm kind of flattered. When you create art, you want it to get a reaction, right? The best reaction, of course, is 'Bravo! You're a genius! Here, take a shit-ton of money.' But even a negative review is better than 'yeah, fine, whatever.' Maybe it sounds weird, but I'm kind of proud that you tore it up, in a 'Rite of Spring' premiere riot sort of way.”

Son of a bitch. Was he _trying_ to press her buttons, forgiving her instantly, going so far as to take _pride_ in her destruction of his work? Smug, smug, smug. She looked forward to slapping him randomly, out of nowhere, the next time they hung out, just on general principle.

Wait – the next time they hung out?

_Watch yourself, Louise. Don't crack. Don't let anyone in. That way lies madness._

Now Alex's unaccountable chill faded a bit. “So, um, can I, like, walk you home or something. I mean, I live right around the corner from you, so we're going the same way anyway, but...”

“Wait,” said Louise. “How come I've never seen you walking to or from school, then, if we live so close?”

Alex cleared his throat. “Well, I take different routes every day. I start out about an hour early in the morning and sketch stuff along the way. Then I usually have after school activities – D&D club, chess team; you know, geek stuff – so I don't go home right after, and I sketch on my way home as well. Just in the two months I've been here, I've sketched about half of Old Town in detail. I haven't done Wonder Wharf yet – that's going to be my masterpiece. I'm going to capture it in all its tacky glory.”

To Louise's surprise, she realized that she was now walking home beside Alex as he talked, as if it had been her plan all along. What the hell was happening? While Alex went on about his sketches, she ran a full, multi-pass diagnostic on her brain.

_Was she actually attracted to this dork?_ No. Thank God.

_Did she_ like _him?_ Okay, maybe a little, in the way one in-your-face bastard can admire another. Game recognizes game.

_Was she interested in him?_ Again, a little, at least intellectually. He _was_ off-the-wall talented, and smart, and had better social skills than most nerds. Too bad Tina was away at Rutgers – she'd have loved this guy.

Second pass: _Attracted?_ No. Like? Sort of. _Interested?_ A little... wait. No. She was much more than “a little” interested in Alex. She was drawn to him. Partly because of his Bizarro World nerdy charisma, but mostly because – and this was the hardest thing to admit – he had her number. That was why she'd torn up the portrait. She'd had enough of it staring back at her, mocking her, a sad clown with a wicked smile and tired, despairing eyes.

There were plenty of photographs of her around, enough for her to be sure that no one would guess, just by looking at her, the depth of her grief. Yet somehow this kid, someone her own age, with no more life experience than her – probably less in many ways – saw through her.

And worst of all, far worse than simply encountering someone who could read her like she had floating, context-sensitive tooltips, was that it was a boy. A boy who, though he hadn't let on, obviously had a crush on her. She didn't like that dynamic. It wasn't just that she wasn't in the market. Even if she had been, why would anyone get into a relationship with someone who had the upper hand in that way? It would be like dating your therapist.

Alex was still talking as they rounded the corner onto Ocean Avenue. “...thing that I do know, intuitively, is that everything you see is an expression of a pattern that occurs a million other places in nature and geometry. You see this tree, particularly now, without its leaves? That pattern of branches – offshoots at seemingly random angles, getting smaller as they get farther from the base... I could photograph it, run it through Photoshop, turn it red and translucent, and it would be indistinguishable from the blood vessels in a lung. And trees _are_ the lungs of the planet. Conceptually, maybe even mathematically, the universe is a giant fractal. I'm amazed they haven't found the Grand Unified Theory yet. Patterns are everything, and everything is patterns. I... I'm sorry, I've been rattling on like this for like ten minutes, haven't I?”

“It's okay, I haven't been listening,” said Louise, relieved to get in a good jab.

“Probably for the best,” said Alex. He stopped then, and turned to face Louise, staring pointedly into her eyes, and for the first time since he initially approached her; visibly nervous.

But not so nervous that he didn't have the temerity to put his hands on her shoulders.

“Look, Louise, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. Maybe I have you all wrong. What the fuck do I know? But you _are_ fascinating, and I would like to get to know you better. Maybe, if you tell me a little about yourself, I'll be able to draw you more accurately next time, right?” He chuckled, then noticed that Louise was not cool with having his hands on her shoulders. He drew them away quickly.

At least the guy could take a hint.

“Seriously though,” continued Alex, “I can tell you don't like being... known. I'll respect that, if you insist, but I think it's bad for you – for anyone, I mean. Like, okay, so you're not the saddest person ever. Fine. What _are_ you, then? Because _whatever_ you are, you are the most extreme version of it I can imagine. I--”

God, this kid had a mouth on him. Did he ever shut up? “What I _am_ is none of your _fucking_ business. I thought I made that clear.”

He shook his head. “You make it clear to everyone, all the time. It's bullshit. It has to be _somebody's_ business. We're herd animals, fer Chrissake.”

“What? What the fuck are you talking about?” The conversation had just taken a turn for the surreal, in Louise's opinion, and she didn't really have the patience.

Alex sighed. “No one is an island, Louise. People need community. They _need_ to be known. To be understood. You can't just spend your life glaring at everyone around you so they'll leave you alone. It's one thing to have boundaries, it's another to have nothing _but_ boundaries. Keep it up long enough, and you'll die alone and it will be a relief.”

Unbelievable. “Fuck! You! You just can't drop it, can you? You actually think you know me. You know, I bet you think of yourself as a Sensitive Artist, and that it gives you some magic ability to see through people. But you're full of shit. You think I'm going to die alone? You're going to die in about 30 seconds, asshole! _”_

“Everything alright out here?”

Louise realized that they'd come to a halt outside her family's restaurant, and had been putting on a show for the eatery's handful of customers, and for the chef, her father, through the plate glass front window.

It must have been a pretty striking sight, Louise thought, fleetingly. Two skinny teenagers in profile – one over six feet tall, one five-foot-nothing, but sporting a bunny-ear hat – leaning into each other, arguing like an umpire and an angry team manager, the taller one leaning down to loom over the shorter one to make a point, the little one then stretching up on her tiptoes to look the other in the eye.

“Everything's fine, dad,” said Louise, a bit deflated. She'd just been getting into it, had just barely tasted blood. Now, the tension broken, she reminded herself that Alex did have her dead to rights. And she did not like that at all. “Just having an argument about 19th century European philosophers.”

“Yeah,” said Alex. “She's on Team Kierkegaard, and I'm more of a Hegel man. I mean come on, the Kierk was all about the concrete as opposed to the abstract, but his whole world view centered on the Christian mythos, which is a monument to magical thinking. Now, that doesn't invalidate everything he said, but it–”

“Yes, well,” said the restaurateur, out of his depth and still concerned for his daughter, “I'm sure that's all very fascinating and... philosophical, but I did hear my daughter call you an asshole and threaten to kill you, so...”

Louise sighed. “It's fine, Dad. I just think Hegel is really gross. So, Alex,” she said to her own shock and dismay, “wanna come in? We can discuss Schopenhauer over a couple of 'Heart-felt Franks burgers.'” Bob's Burger of the Day was topped with artichoke hearts and served with a side of franks and beans.

Louise's sudden change of energy, right on the heels of a potentially unpleasant encounter with her dad, left Alex completely off balance – Literally. He swayed a bit turning for the door. “Uh, yeah, sure. Burgers. Schopenhauer. Fine.”

Louise was delighted to see Alex truly at sea, and without his cool, for the first time. She had to take advantage of his momentary vulnerability to establish dominance.

She directed him to follow her to the rearmost booth, and made sure to sit with her back to the wall. She could see the entire restaurant from there, while his field of view would be limited to her and the bathroom door, minimizing the amount of visual information he received, and giving her full command of his attention. Also, if anyone happened to have planned a mob hit against her – it  _was_ that kind of day – she'd see it coming.

What she didn't see coming, with her gaze fixed threateningly on her companion, was her mother making her way over to them. Alex may have lost his cool on his way in, but no one can be cool around their parents. And in the face of Linda Belcher, the Fonz himself would have been reduced to Urkel-like awkwardness. Louise loved her mother to death, but the woman emitted toxic levels of Mom radiation. Drop her into the middle of a Tarantino flick, and in a few minutes Samuel Jackson would be Jazzercizing with her.

“Sooooo, what can I get for you two lovebirds?” she crooned.

“Jesus, mom. He's not my fucking boyfriend.” Linda flinched at her baby daughter's profanity, though she ought to have been used to it by now. “We just met. I haven't even decided whether to let him live.”

“Ahright, ahright. Fine. What can I get for you two young people who are in no way involved with each other?”

Alex gave Louise a sympathetic look.

_Don't you dare take pity on me, you bastard._

“Two burgers of the day,” said Louise without looking up. “I'll have a Pepsi. What're you drinkin', Stringbean?”

Alex liked the nickname. Or, more to the point, he liked that she had  _given_ him a nickname. It suggested that she was taking a liking to him, whether she wanted to or not. “Just water,” he said.

That neither of them had disengaged from their staring contest gave Linda a weird feeling she couldn't quite find a word for in her at-best-average vocabulary. Normally, two kids staring into each other's eyes meant romance was in the air. But Louise was wearing an expression Linda recognized as her daughter's “Gears of War” face, the one she wore while effortlessly slaughtering enemy soldiers in her favorite first-person shooter.

_God help that poor boy,_ she thought as she brought the kids' order to her husband.


	3. Chapter 3

“I'm sorry, Rudy, it's not you. I'm just not interested in boys yet. In fact with any luck it'll never happen. I like my body the way it is and I'm not giving it up without a fight.”

For Rudy, whose own 11-year-old body was bursting with – well, a lot of things – Louise's rejection represented a crisis. This wasn't mere “like-like” and he, a fool, had rushed in to his confession of love without a backup plan.

It didn't make sense. It wasn't like he was declaring his intention to seduce her, for God's sake. He just wanted hand-holding rights and the option to negotiate the matter of the occasional kiss. Sure, she hadn't yet “blossomed.” But they were meant for each other, that was obvious to everyone. Except Louise, apparently.

He knew he should just let it go and wait for her to catch up. But he was, in his own timid way, angry as hell at the moment.

“You seem pretty interested in _Boo-Boo_ ,” he snapped, referring to the boy-band singer Louise had been obsessed with for the past two years.

Louise matched his energy, then doubled it.

“Boo-Boo isn't a _boy_ , he's a flaxen-haired tween angel with the smooth, alluring, auto-tuned voice of a love-starved child prophet that insinuates itself into your sleep and caresses you in your deepest, loneliest dreams! _Obviously._ And I have _personally_ slapped him on no less than two occasions. If you think it'll help, I can slap _you_ a bunch of times, but that's the only interaction our bodies are going to have right now, so _drop it_ , okay.”

The outburst left her panting. After a few deep breaths, she gathered herself and regarded her poor, lovelorn best buddy, and her heart sank. “I really am sorry, Rude. Look, if I ever cross over to the dark side and start dating, maybe we give it a try. But in the meantime, you've got to find someone else.”

“There is no one else,” Rudy whispered, as much to himself as to her.

_God damn you Rudy. I will not be guilted into puberty._ “You could ask Chloe Barbash. She's got less of an attitude since Andy Pesto broke up with her in the middle of gym class.”

Rudy chuckled despite himself. “Yeah, that  _was_ pretty spectacular.” Andy's voice had broken all over the place as he screamed at her to go fuck herself with one of her many, many shampoo bottles, while she clawed at him with her press-on nails, half of which broke off and stuck to his chest. It was the stuff legends were made of. But it didn't exactly suggest that Chloe was good girlfriend material. Anyone who could drive one of the perennially G-rated Pesto twins to scream obscenities and suggest lewd acts was probably not a fun date.

_Don't worry, Rudy,_ thought Louise. _Someone wonderful will fall for you. And no one will hurt you and live to tell about it. I can give you that._

_I just can't give you what you want._


	4. Chapter 4

“I'm _am_ sorry,” said Alex, just on general principle.

“You should be,” said Louise. “Now stop apologizing. It's getting boring.”

“I was hoping it was getting _through_ ,” said Alex.

“Ah,” said Louise, still wall-eyed. “Banter. Cut that crap, too.”

Alex smiled at her, then double-checked. “Is smiling okay?” he asked.

“I'll tolerate it. If you tell me this: who the _fuck_ are you?”

Alex's smile widened. ( _Careful, Stringbean. This is a jolliness-free zone._ ) “My favorite subject. What do you want to know?”

“Official bio. Start with when you hatched from your pod, and keep it entertaining.”

“Ah,” said Alex. “Banter.” 

“ _My_ prerogative.”

“Fine,” said Alex. “Okay, well, I was born – excuse me, hatched – 17 years ago last month in Binghamton, New York and raised by my mom. Never knew my dad. Mom is a therapist--”

“Ha! Of course – that explains everything, doesn't it? Your mother's a shrink, so you think you can do it too.”

“Well...” said Alex.

“But you don't have a degree or anything, of course, you're just winging it. In short, you're full of shit.” 

Alex's smile persisted.  _Keep on smiling, idiot. Now_ I've  _got_ your  _number._

“Well, Mom and I do talk about her work a lot – theory, not specific patients, of course. It's been our favorite topic of conversation for as long as I can remember. I've picked up a _lot_ the core principles of the trade, read case studies, college texts... No, I'm not a professional, but I know a hell of a lot for an amateur.”

Louise laughed bitterly.  _You are so out of your depth, Stringbean, and you don't even know it._ “So, what – you figure I'll be your first case study? Your practice patient? Your  _guinea pig?_ ”

Alex, looked to the heavens. “I just want to fucking make you happy!”

Linda chose that moment to arrive with their burgers. “Good luck with  _that,”_ she said. “Here ya go.” She placed the platters in front of them and sped off – she didn't want to interrupt Alex's missionary work.

There was an uncomfortable silence. They toyed idly with their food. Finally, Alex, subdued, sighed and said “My mom says I'm a 'rescuer.' I'm drawn to troubled, broken people. I want to fix them. I'm pretty sensitive to that kind of thing – sorry, but there's actually no way I'm wrong about you – but it clouds my judgment. I probably should have stayed away from you. I might have even managed, but...” he closed his eyes “...you're so damned beautiful.”

_Annnnnd you're outta here. I fucking knew it._

Alex looked down – he couldn't meet her gaze – and shook his head. “You probably won't believe this, but I've actually always done pretty well with girls. Started dating when I was 12, sometimes even had more than one girlfriend at a time. I think it's partly because Mom raised me to be super-confident, even when I'm not, and partly because I started doing those portraits when I was 10, mostly of girls I liked, and they make a way bigger impression than a bouquet of roses.

“But you – you make me lose my shit. You're so cute and so broken... You're my fucked-up dream girl. I knew you'd be a tough nut to crack, but it's taken up all my RAM to maintain what little cool I've got left.”

Louise raised an eyebrow. “Huh. You've mostly come off really smooth today. Infuriatingly smooth. You have no idea how bad I've wanted to slap you.”

“Well, it's all relative,” said Alex. “I'm normally a real Mack Daddy. Sure, I _look_ like the opposite of a player, but that's why when I drop the charm bomb, girls already have their guard down.”

_Jesus. What a smug bastard. I'm gonna slap him so hard he's going to have a permanent hand-shaped indentation on his cheek._

“And you figured that shit would work on me.”

Alex shrugged and flashed a lopsided smile. “I kinda hoped.”

“Well you did interrupt my cafeteria time and live to tell about it. That's pretty impressive.” Louise sighed. “Look, you're really... interesting. And insanely talented, obviously. But I'm just not in the market. At all. For anyone. Okay?”

Alex was not so much disappointed as disoriented. And angry, though not at Louise. Clearly, God hated him. He pulled himself together. “Damn. I'm not used to failing at this stuff. Do you at least want to try to be friends? It could be pretty entertaining all around, don't you think?”

_Dammit, this guy's charm bomb could take out Nagasaki. Don't give in, Louise. Don't..._

_On the other hand, he can take a lot of abuse._ That _could be fun._

“Okay,” said Louise. “Friends.” She extended a sharply pointing hand. “On a trial basis. I can cancel at any time, for any reason. Got it?”

“Got it.”

They ate their burgers in distracted silence, each contemplating what they had just done. Inside Alex a hot front ( _she wants to be friends!_ ) and a cold front ( _she doesn't want a_ boy _friend!)_ met, and torrential rain and lightning ensued. He wanted to jump for joy off a cliff. 

Louse's mind – almost always storming in the first place – now rained poison-tipped nails. The streets were red with blood, full of human pincushions.

_Life is a joke. Nothing matters, particularly not you. If you ever did matter, if your life ever did have meaning, it's gone now._

_What the hell are you thinking? Fuck this guy._

Now her goddamned stupid toxic brain took a flier and imagined what the literal interpretation of that last phrase would be like. And though Alex, charm aside, was deeply unsexy, the thought stirred something in her, something she spent as much energy suppressing as she did the voices.

_Goddammit! Don't do this, Louise. Are you really that fucking weak?_

“Can I ask you something?” said Alex. “No, fuck it, I'm gonna ask. You don't have to answer: are you asexual – which is totally cool, by the way – or is this a trauma thing? It matters because it will help me understand your boundaries.”

Louise's eyes and nostrils flared. “That  _is_ one of my boundaries, Stringbean. Cross it and it'll be the last thing you ever do. Understand?”

“Perfectly,” said Alex. “But, um, that's going to make talking with you really tricky. So much of you is wrapped up in your... whatever it is... that pretty much anything could potentially set you off. It's like Riverdancing in a minefield. And you know, I really want to live until dinner. We're ordering Chinese, and I've been craving for lo mien all week.”

Louise chuckled at this despite herself. How did he manage to be cowed and cocky at the same time?

Sensing an opportunity, Alex said “Hey – why don't you join us? Mom really wants to meet you, and it would be an opportunity to impress you with more of my drawings. Plus, one good meal deserves another.”

Chinese did sound really good, but Louise was reluctant to meet Alex's mother. There was zero chance that the woman would not be psychoanalyzing her the entire time. Every word, every gesture. Her body language. She'd have theories about the meaning of Louise's bunny-ear hat. It was bad enough that Stringbean could read her so well; being in the sights of a professional brain-wrangler was too dangerous.

So she was once again shocked and appalled when she heard herself say “Sure. Why not?”

_You know what? Fuck you Louise. You're dead to me._

Holy shit! She really was insane. What did that even mean? Who was dead to whom? Who...

“Louise. Louise? Hey – where'd you go?”

Louise realized she'd been sitting, staring at nothing, unthinking, giving off sparks, for at least a full minute. That was weird. She hadn't gone away in that manner for some time.Not since...

“Sorry. I was just thinking about things,” Louise lied.

“Must have been some pretty heavy stuff. Care to share it with the whole class?”

_Is he out of his mind?_

“Stringbean, here's a tip for communicating with me: when I do _this...”_ she grabbed him by the collar, pulled him toward her, and slapped him, hard. “...you're fucking with my boundaries. Simple, huh? Consider it a LifeHack.”

Alex shook his head quickly to maneuver his brain back into its socket. Part of him said  _fuck this girl. She just might be capable of literally killing you._

Another part doubled down.  _Louise Belcher, I am going to fix you even if it breaks_ me _._

Yet another part, a bit further south, stood at attention and  _commanded_ him:  _Fuck this girl. As soon as possible._


	5. Chapter 5

_Mark this day in your calendar,_ Rudy thought.  _February 14, Valentine's Day, 6_ _th_ _grade – the date of our first real kiss. Celebrate it every year, regardless of where this takes us or how it works out. The day I kissed Louise Belcher._

Rudy and Louise sat on her bed, grinning crazily and, in Louise's case to her horror, periodically giggling. It was official: Like-like, maybe more. _Definitely_ more in Rudy's case _._

Achievement Unlocked.

Louise had made her decision the previous night, surprising even herself – it had come out of nowhere. She still hadn't hit the dreaded state of puberty, but perhaps the first stirrings were there, connecting with her deepest unconscious mind, because there it was: thinking for the thousandth time about how much Rudy wanted her, how he wanted that kiss, it suddenly felt... right. It sounded nice. She would enjoy it, enjoy holding his hand walking down the halls at school, enjoy holding him close to her. Most surprising, shocking, even, she liked the thought of his sexual excitement. She didn't want to do anything about it – not for a long, long time, if ever; it was frankly frightening – but she experienced it as a compliment, and a bit of a rush. Plus, she'd just been through sex ed, and it had, in a quiet, intellectual way, electrified her.

Linda had given her “the talk” the previous year, but somehow, the use of slides and videos in the proceedings gave the facts additional oomph. And the embarrassed, blushing giggles of her classmates? She was above such things. Maybe the other girls hadn't had “the talk” yet themselves, but regardless of why, Louise realized immediately that she was more mature, more fundamentally grounded than them, and found them contemptible.

She couldn't imagine _the act_ with Rudy, or anyone else – even Boo-Boo, who, though she'd met and slapped him twice, was more a teen idol abstraction than a life and blood boy. She did, however, still dream of running her hands through his magnificent golden mane; of chasing and taming that wild, snack-size stallion. And of slapping him again, of course. He deserved many a slap on his stupid, beautiful face. Someday they would meet again, and he would once more feel the sting of her five-fingered lash.

Neither could find the right words for the moment, so they kissed again; this time, she caressed his cheek. This kiss was longer, though not deeper – Louise couldn't comprehend how anyone would want another person's tongue in their mouth (creepy), and Rudy was sensitive enough to intuit this and didn't try. _She's still a child, mostly,_ he reminded himself. _Govern yourself accordingly._

When they disengaged they said, simultaneously, “That was nice... Jinx!” and laughed at their own childishness.

Now Rudy shifted gears, serious as a heart attack. “I know you're not really ready for this yet,” he said, “and you're just trying it out for size. But I love you, and I'll wait for you. It... honestly, it won't be easy. I could kiss you all day. A thousand times. Just holding your hand makes me dizzy. Um, would holding hands be okay? That would be nice.”

Louise's head was spinning. Part of her, as much as she cared for Rudy, found kissing – romantic kissing – intrinsically gross. But it wasn't gross with Rudy – when it was happening; in fact, it was... kind of great. Afterward, after the glow wore off, she would be grossed out again at the thought. Kissing was a surreal carnival of gross-great.

And she had always had a somewhat perverse love of all things gross-great. Maybe puberty wouldn't be so bad, if she chose to experience on that level.

“Holding hands is nice,” she said. “Kissing is kinda weird.”

Rudy smiled. “Yeah, it is, actually, when you think about it. So, how about we only kiss when it's your idea?”

“Yeah, bro,” called Gene, from the hallway. “Her body, her choice!”

“Gene, what the hell?” Louise was livid. And confused – it wasn't like Gene to eavesdrop, except maybe when their folks were discussing Christmas presents.

“Sorry,” said Gene, poking his head in. “You left your door open, and I was passing by. Which reminds me, it's time for my pre-dinner snack. Leftovers from yesterday's dinner. Boo-ya.”

Gene bounded off. Louise called out “close the...” but he was gone.

“I'll get it,” said Rudy. “Hold on.” But before he could stand, Tina stuck her head in and said. “Congratulations, Lou. This is so exciting. A whole new world is opening up to you...”

“Yeah yeah yeah, thanks, now go aw...”

“And don't worry, kissing is awesome. Boys are awesome. Rudy is probably awesome, I wouldn't know, I mean, not in that way. Obviously he's really...”

“Tina! Thanks! Go!”

“Right. Sorry. Congratulations. Sorry.” Tina withdrew herself from the entrance to her sister's room, and had the presence of mind to close the door behind her – which didn't muffle the sound of her triumphant “yes!”

_Great. They know. Which means Mom and Dad will know in two minutes._

Dad would be cool, if a little wistful, but Mom... Any moment now, Mom would burst in, grab them both in big bear hug – too tight – and croon about her “little lovebirds,” and how her baby was growing up, and how she was going to throw them a big First Kiss party tonight. She'd interrogate them about where they wanted to go on their first date, then tell them all about her first date with Dad, then give them completely inappropriate, way premature advice on dealing with their smoldering urges.

Louise could feel her dad pinching the bridge of his nose that very moment, and muttering “oh my God” as his wife lost her mind and completely ignored his pleas to stay in the restaurant and give the kids some space. Now she was surely dashing out side and throwing open the door to the apartment above. Hmm. Not yet... Not yet... Wait for it... There! Okay, so she was off by about 10 seconds.

In her rush to interrupt her baby girl's first romantic moment, Louise noted, her mother forgot to close the door behind her – no slamming sound. Now she heard the footsteps pounding up the stairs. She could tell her mother was taking them two at a time. She lunged for her door and locked it.

“No matter what you hear,” she commanded Rudy, “do _not_ open the door. Do not reply to anything she says. Silence.”

Rudy nodded quickly.

Less than a second later, Linda Belcher reached the door and grabbed the handle. Unable to turn it, she knocked “Louise, baby, let me in, I gotta hug you guys to death!”

Rudy caved in less than a minute.


	6. Chapter 6

Naturally, Alex's mom was the nicest, smartest person Louise had ever met. As Alicia Goldenberg hugged her warmly and cooed “It's so nice to meet you, come in, come in...” Louise felt a sense of impending doom. _The woman must be great at her job, because we've barely met and I already want to tell her things. This will not end well._

“Now I know you guys just ate,” she said, taking Louise's coat and hanging it on the rack just past the foyer, “so I put the food in the fridge for later. Here, sit – we have these really expensive new couches that have yet to feel the touch of a visitor's butt. You're our first guest – be gentle with us.”

It was a dumb joke, and had it come from anyone else, Louise would already be grinding her teeth and planning her escape. But the woman was so sincere, it was disarming. It was also clear that she _knew_ it was a dumb joke, which went a long way in Louise's book.

As Ms. Goldenberg fussed over her son and his new friend, she spoke and behaved just as Louise's mother might in the same circumstances; perhaps a little more restrained. She did all the usual overbearing, excessively cute Mom things, said all the usual awkward Mom stuff, but it was clear that she was consciously playing a role, putting on a performance of her “Clueless Suburban Mother” caricature.

When, with the kids situated – tea and crackers and blankets all around – she sat in her new easy chair and regarded them happily, the caricature disappeared and she was Dr. Alicia Goldenberg, PhD again. Louise wanted to be terrified of her, but she couldn't scrape together enough adrenaline to support the emotion. When the woman looked her, it was with the same infuriatingly compassionate expression she'd seen on Alex's stupid face, only in this case, backed up with some expertise. Alex might be full of shit, but Dr. Goldenberg knew what she was doing.

However, she had to be basing her impression of Louise on what Alex, an amateur, had told her. So if she thought she knew who Louise Belcher was, it was by way of the second hand observations of her overweening child. _You don't know shit about me, lady._

Except, of course, that she did. Alex, Louise reminded herself, _did_ have her dead to rights. Maybe it was a lucky guess, maybe he was some sort of therapist savant, maybe she wasn't as mysterious as she liked to think.

But one way or another, she was doomed. These people were going to try to tear down her walls, and they'd probably succeed. On some level, she knew she actually wanted them to. On another level, she had to get the fuck out of there.

She stood, leaped over the coffee table and bolted out the door.

Except she didn't. Her body refused to follow her brain's escape plan. More black magic fuckery. No, not magic, just her own suddenly activated, pathetic need to be understood, to open up. To be known, as Alex had put it.

She had to fight it.

Louise was no dummy. She was aware of what she was doing, had been doing, for so long, to herself. That it was pathological. That it would ultimately lead to her disappearing up her own navel, or some other, less pleasant orifice. She was aware of the pain it caused those close to her, those who loved her, and she regretted it. All the more reason to disappear, as soon and as thoroughly as possible.

_If you think you're going to provide me with some sort of epiphany, lady, you're mistaken. Sorry to disappoint you._

Louise sat still, fuming, as Alicia Goldenberg spoke eloquently and pithily about a range of subjects, producing brilliant insights in the most offhanded way. Louise noticed herself listening, even responding – laughing at the woman's jokes, and at her Abbott and Costello-esque banter with her brilliant son. But she was on autopilot, her mind occupied with more dire matters, not least of which was that the funnier Alex was, the closer he got to sexy, which was highly disturbing.

When she surfaced again, Louise noticed the concern on her hosts' faces when they looked at her, even as their hilarious banter continued. _Dammit, they know. They know I've been Elsewhere. Better rectify that._

“So, um, Alex,” she said, struggling struggling for coherency, “I assume all of these pictures on the wall are yours, right? I mean, except for that Van Gogh over the fireplace.”

Alex and his mother exchanged a worried look. Dr. Goldenberg smiled at her. “Sweetie, we just spent about five minutes talking about those drawings. You participated in the discussion, made some very clever quips at my son's expense. And you don't remember a thing? Have you ever been diagnosed with dissociative episodes?”

_It begins._ “I've never been diagnosed with anything, because there's nothing wrong with me!” _Yeah, and yelling at the psychologist will totally convince her of that._

“Look,” said Louise, affecting a calm she did not at all feel, “I get it. You're a shrink. When you're a hammer, everything looks like a nail. But I'm fine. Just a little short of sleep, okay?”

The doctor smiled. “Okay,” she said. Louise knew she wasn't fooling anybody. But at this point it was the principle of the thing. _You don't just drop into my life, all-knowing portrait in hand, press all my buttons, hand me off to your shrink mother, and “rescue” me. You wanna change my life, you better at least buy me dinner first._

_Oh, crap, they had, hadn't they?_

_Whatever. Doesn't matter – I don't put out on the first date._

“Louise? Honey? You just went away again.” Now Alicia was standing over her, examining her – specifically her eyes. “Sweetie, your pupils are pinpoints. Does this happen to you a lot? Alex, go get her a piece of fruit, maybe she's hypoglycemic. Are you hypoglycemic, Louise?”

Louise shook her head. “Don't think so.”

Dr. Goldenberg sat on the coffee table and faced Louise. “Listen, I know you'll deny it up and down, but I can read people pretty well, as you might imagine. And you're clearly dealing with some sort of psychiatric or emotional issue. Honestly, you don't hide it very well. And I'm guessing you've never gotten any treatment for it.”

“I don't need...”

“Bullshit,” said Dr. Goldenberg, gently, “You've had two dissociative episodes, just sitting here, in the last five minutes.” Another compassionate smile. Louise was too dazed to do more than take note of it. “Look, it's none of... here's your apple, honey.” Louise took the fruit and bit into it. It was a Red Delicious, which she hated, but she sensed that she needed it, so she nibbled at it determinedly “...there you go. Mangia. Your psychopathology is none of my business – I'm not your therapist, and I can tell you don't want to be therapized anyway.

“But my son thinks the world of you, and he really can pick 'em. I don't think he's ever had a crush that wasn't case study material. So you can tell me to fuck off, and leave; you can tell me to fuck off, and stay; or we can talk about it. Or not. But Chang's egg rolls are the best, so I recommend staying around for dinner.”

Louise nodded, though she wasn't clear to which option she was assenting. She was pretty sure it was the “fuck off and stay” one, but she didn't much feel like cursing at the nice lady. Murdering her, sure, but cursing? That would be impolite.

“Hey,” said Alex, startling her – had she gone away again? – “come with me. Bring the apple – you still look disoriented” He took her hand ( _bold move, Stringbean. You're lucky I'm only operating at about 20%, or you'd be in a world of pain_ )and led her upstairs.

Alex's room was a loft space. The Goldenbergs' row home was the only unit in the neighborhood to feature one. In fact, Louise recognized it as the house directly across the alley from Chez Belcher. She wondered if Alex had somehow been spying on her; but the only window in the Belcher residence that faced the alley was in the kitchen, and the curtains were usually closed. She decided that there was only so paranoid she could be.

_You lucky bastard_ , thought Louise. She still loved her little closet bedroom – she'd chosen to stay in it rather than move up to Tina's vacated room when her sister went off to college – but Alex's room was huge, the full length and width of the residence. Light streamed in from large windows front and back. There were nooks and crannies, and walls at odd angles. He had his own bathroom, a microwave and a small cupboard. It was a full apartment. A fucking bachelor pad.

_What exactly do you think you're bringing me up here for, Stringbean? If you think your little IKEA bed is gonna see any action today, you are sorely..._

Still holding Louise's hand, Alex passed his bed and mini-kitchen without a second glance and led her to a large light-filled room containing an easel and a folding chair. “Sit,” he said, “any way you're comfortable.”

Louise sat dutifully, then her mind snapped back into focus. “What, you think you're gonna draw me again? I told you...”

“Not draw – paint. I'm not as good at it as the pencil drawings, but I'm getting the hang of it.”

There were canvasses all along the floor, propped up against the walls. Portraits, landscapes, still lives, and one female nude, which set off alarms in Louise's head. Just how “comfortable” did he expect her to get?

That concern aside, she had to admit they were damned good for someone who was just “getting the hang” of painting. There was a portrait of his mother that was mesmerizing, and the honestly very tasteful nude was stunning.

_I've got to snap out of this..._

“I care what medium you do it in, I told you not to. On pain of death, if I recall.”

I don't think you said 'pain of death,'” said Alex, chuckling.

“Yeah,” said Louise, “well, here's another LifeHack for you: Anything I insist on is on pain of death, got it?”

Alex, poised to begin painting, put down his brush and palette and stared at Louise, arms crossed.

After an uncomfortable silence and a brief staring contest that ended in a draw, Louise said “what?”

“What the fuck is your deal? I mean, I get it, you're angry. Like, angry forever because no one has been more wronged or suffered more than you.”

There was bloody murder in Louise's eyes. For a moment, Alex actually feared for his physical safety.

“ _I'm not mocking you!_ Everyone's trauma is different, and there's no universal standard for measuring it against someone else's. Whatever breaks you, breaks you, whether it's a verbally abusive parent or being raped and mutilated. And whatever it was, the worst thing that ever happened to you was enough to turn you into...” he gestured at her “...this.”

_I could snap his skinny neck. No, then the police would get involved and that would be damned inconvenient. Fuck it, a swift kick in the balls will send a clear enough message._

Louise sat still, raging, plotting revenge.

“You're in a lot of pain, and I know I'm in way over my head, but I want to help. I want you to be happy. It would help so much if you opened up to someone. I mean, your 'origin story' is none of my business unless you want it to be, but if you could just make an attempt at normal, human interaction, you might just like it, and you might not spend every moment of your life feeling like you're on fire _._

“I'd love to be the one you let in, but it doesn't matter if it's me – make a goddamn friend.”

Louise was apoplectic, but could not move. “Fuck. You.” she growled.

“You're going to shrivel up and die, Louise.” To Louise's shock and amazement, Alex was painting. “Do you want to see what you'll look like in ten years, pinched and dried up and wrinkling before you're 30, wasting away, wearing a permanent frown? 'Cause I can show you. I can also show you what you'd look like if you dropped whatever's weighing you down. That's the painting I want to do, but it's your call.”

Thermonuclear war raged in Louise's head. Buildings shattered, faces melted, fallout killed millions slowly and horribly. _Give me a gun and a clock tower, and I'll show you what happens when someone fucks with me like this._

She decided to grab him by the collar, shake him violently, and scream something eloquent like “fuck the fuck off, you fucking piece of fuck!” But she couldn't move, and all that came out was a weak “Please. Stop.” She whimpered _(Pathetic, Belcher. Just pathetic.)_ then bowed her head and buried her face in her hands.

Alex stopped cold. A wave of panic swept across his chest. He'd gone too far. Instead of coaxing the truth out of her, or gradually making her feel comfortable and safe in his presence, he'd vomited up every thought and feeling he had about Louise. Worse, he'd matched her energy, and blasted her with an angry fire hose of amateur psychoanalysis.

He'd fucked up, big time. He'd alienated the girl of his dreams, probably forever. And he'd very likely deepened her pain in the process. Unforgivable.

There was only one thing to do.

He wondered what it was.

He was in no way in control of his actions as he stepped from behind his easel and approached Louise, who was frozen in her chair, mind gone somewhere else. He reached down, placed his hands under her arms and lifted her up until she was standing. Whatever instinct had driven him to do this now instructed him to embrace the tiny girl in a great bear hug, place his forehead against the top of her bunny-ear hat and murmur “I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm a fucking idiot. I had no business trying to pry you open with a crowbar. I am so, so sorry.”

Louise hissed “let go of me or I will fucking kill you,” but made no effort to escape Alex's embrace. In fact, she found herself settling deeper into it.

_This is it. Endgame. Give in now and it's all over._

Alex was painfully aware that no absolutely meant no, and that if he did not, in fact, let go of Louise, he would be committing assault – both legally and ethically.

On the other hand, Louise was beginning to relax, to the point that he thought she might fall asleep in his arms. He sensed that her demand to release her was more of a reflex than a genuine request.

Get consent.

“I'll let go now if you want,” he said. “Do you still want me to let go?”

Louise, head against his chest, said, quietly, “no. Just tell me more about how you're sorry and were totally out of line. I want a fucking soliloquy. I want Hamlet, got it?”

“Got it,” said Alex.

He told her about vomiting up all of his thoughts and about the angry fire hose. He told he knew he had hurt her, and that it was the last thing he wanted to do. He told her he'd do anything to make her feel better...

She was asleep, snoring lightly into his chest. He lifted her carefully, laid her on his bed and tucked her in. When he was sure she was comfortable and deeply asleep, he went downstairs for a lengthy consultation with Dr. Goldenberg.


	7. Chapter 7

Rudy, his skin a disturbing shade of blue, was grinning like an idiot as he gasped for air. _Who needs oxygen_ , he thought, _I've got love_.

Eventually his survival instincts kicked in and he took a second hit off his inhaler. That did the trick. His skin returned to its original shade of medium Caucasian. Louise grabbed his hands and lifted him up to a seated position on the floor of her bedroom. His deep, desperate breaths settled into a normal rhythm. Through it all, his goofy grin never faded.

_I'm in love with an idiot,_ thought Louise.

“That was awesome,” said Rudy, and not colloquially. He was genuinely awed. He and Louise had just had their first makeout session, kissing until their lips were numb, feeling each other up and down (avoiding certain areas), whispering “I love you,” “you're amazing,” and occasionally “watch it – too close to the danger zone.”

Louise's long-dreaded puberty had hit her like a freight train, and to her horror, she loved it. Well, some of it.

The menstruating she could do without. She had horrible cramps that at their peak left her curled up in a fetal position on the floor, screaming. Tina, who had no such difficulties but was good at Googling things, had suggested that Louise start on the Pill, a common treatment for dysmenorrhea.

This didn't sit well with their parents, especially their overprotective father – his baby, thirteen years old, taking birth control? Terrifying. But in the end, Bob trusted Louise, not so much to do the right thing in general, but to protect her own interests. She would not start having sex just because she was on the Pill.

Damned if she didn't _want_ to all of the sudden, though.

Just at the moment, however, she worried that her boyfriend couldn't survive the act anyway. He'd been so intent on staying joined to Louise at the lips that he'd ignored a severe asthma attack. When they finally went all the way in six or ten or fifteen years (Louise wasn't really clear on what a normal sexual activity trajectory was), he'd have to be hooked up to an oxygen tank or something. She visualized them doing it inside an iron lung, which was hilarious, except for the sex part, which got her hot and bothered again, so much so that she almost forgot to give Rudy the slap he had coming to him.

She overdid it a bit, and Rudy yelped.

“Yeah,” she said. “Awesome. Except that you almost died, dumbass.”

Rudy, Rubbing his cheek, smiled even wider and said “worth it.” Louise raised her hand for another slap, but relented when Rudy flinched. She didn't want the gesture to cross the line from playful to abusive. She'd have to watch that; her feelings for Rudy were intense – more powerful than any emotions she's previously experienced, except maybe pure avarice, and she was having a hard time managing them. Just the thought of Rudy having those same powerful feelings for her all those months, waiting for her to be able to return them, made her want to cry.

What the hell was that? What were those goddamn hormones doing to her? Was she doomed to a Tina-esque existence, lying moaning on the floor every time Rudy canceled a date, or she couldn't go to a Boys 4 Now concert? Would she, God forbid, sublimate her emotions and desires into erotic fan fiction?

Now, puberty wasn't _all_ bad. The orgasms were great – great enough to almost make up for all the miserable parts. And there was something thrilling about jumping off the highest board and belly-flopping into the deep pool of romance. But throw in the mood swings and the hair-trigger tears and the painful hyper-sensitivity of her boobal area, plus the now-pharmaceutically-controlled dysmenorrhea, and she wasn't sure how it would fare in a cost/benefit analysis.

Still, she had to admit that except for the part where her boyfriend almost died of horniness and stupidity, all this lip-mashing, body-groping activity was the best. It was hard to hold back from going further, but there was a certain satisfaction to it, too. It was a bonsai challenge, an exercise in self-control and delayed gratification. Part of that gratification would have to be delayed for years, but a big part would only have to wait until later that evening.

She liked that part.

She hugged Rudy to her. He took this as an invitation to resume the festivities, but she held him back. They had some important matters to discuss. Also, her lips were throbbing, and she was still assimilating the experience of having Rudy's tongue in her mouth.

“Rudy, I need you to promise me something. Seriously – I'm not talking about pinky-swear bullshit; I need you to make a promise you will never, ever break. No matter what.”

Rudy, taken aback by her intensity, forced himself to focus, his mind still swimming. This was going to be some serious relationship stuff. “Okay. Shoot.”

She looked him in the eyes. “Rudy, I want you to promise me that you will never, ever, _ever_ ignore another asthma attack. No matter what we're doing – or whatever you're doing when we're apart – don't tell yourself 'it's just a minor attack,' or 'it's just allergies,' or 'I'd rather keep kissing slash necking with slash feeling up slash dry humping slash _fucking_ Louise...” Rudy gaped. “ This promise never expires, Rudy. I'm planning ahead.

“Never tell yourself any of those things, Rudy. Never, ever, ever, _ever_. I want you to stop and use your inhaler at the slightest hint of a respiratory problem. A wheeze, a sniffle, a bad fart. If it affects your lungs, take your albuterol. No exceptions. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Lou.”

“ _Do_ you?” Louise was now literally nose to nose with Rudy.

“Yes. Really. I do. I promise.”

“Good...” said Louise, relieved – she took him at his word. Still. “...because if you die on me, I will slap your corpse so hard they'll have to give you a closed casket funeral.”

“Understood.” Rudy, who had had his Bar Mitzvah the previous month, crossed himself just to be safe. Better that than cross Louise.


	8. Chapter 8

Louise fumbled for consciousness as her phone rang with her mother's ringtone. She shook her head, disoriented. Where was she? Right, Alex's house. But why was she in bed? She didn't remember falling asleep, though, on reflection, she remembered fading out standing up, nestled in Alex's comforting embrace.

That woke her up. Alex's embrace? She couldn't think with her mother's ringtone blaring at her from her phone. She retrieved her outdated, second-hand smartphone from her jeans pocket and accepted the call. Before she could say “hi, Mom,” Linda Belcher screeched “Louise? Thank God! Where are you? Are you in trouble? Were you kidnapped? Did you fall in a crevice? Why aren't you home? You missed dinner – and you better have a good excuse for scaring your mother half to death, Miss Missy. I called the police, but they said it was too soon to file a missing persons report...”

“Mom! Mom! I'm fine. I'm at a friend's house. I just got a little drowsy and fell asleep on the couch, okay? I'll be home in a few minutes. What time is it?”

This answer did not satisfy Linda one bit. “It's eight o'clock at night. I called ten times – why didn't you answer. I thought you were lying in a ditch. What friend?”

“A new friend,” said Louise. “Someone I just met. I don't know why I didn't hear the phone; I guess I was really deeply asleep. It's been a long day.”

“ _You_ had a long day? Try spending four hours thinking your child was kidnapped, raped and murdered and buried in a shallow grave!” _Jesus, Mom._ “That's like a ten weeks in Parent Years.”

“Mom, relax. I'm sorry. I'll be home in the next ten minutes. And I'm not a child, I'm 17 – I can take care of myself.”

“When you're grown up and have your own apartment you can take care of yourself. As long as you're under _my_ roof, you're a defenseless toddler who doesn't know not to play in traffic.” _Harsh, Mom._ “Come home Louise. I'm going crazy. I drank cooking sherry. I love you. Come home.”

Wow. The last time Mom drank the cooking sherry was when Tina had a pregnancy scare her senior year. Dad couldn't cope with that one, either – he hid in the kitchen, sipping absinthe and having group therapy with his cooking utensils. The ladle understood – he'd been through the same thing with the melon baller.

Louise ran downstairs. She grabbed her backpack from the couch and sprinted for the door, past Alex and his mom, who were playing Scrabble at the dining room table. “Gotta go,” she said, as she grabbed the doorknob. Her hosts did not attempt to engage with her, which she appreciated. She slammed the door behind her and jogged around the corner to Ocean Avenue, to the safety of Home, where she could indulge in her psychopathology undisturbed.

She ate her dinner silently as her Mother harangued her for almost giving her a heart attack. After wolfing down the casserole – which she noted, was actually quite good – she thanked Linda tersely for the sustenance and retreated to her little room. She sat on the edge of her bed and tried to assimilate what she'd just been through. But it was no use, her brain was offline. Thoughts slid and careened off of it and disappeared into the ether.

She considered opening the Secret Compartment and using the tools therein to deal with her numb anger, but thought the better of it. She wasn't going to let Alex drive her to that. She'd save the tools for the right occasion.

_Fucking Alex._

_Fuck. Him._

_No, rephrase that. Alex_ was _on her fuck-marry-kill list – at the end._

There was a tentative knock on her door. She could tell by the rhythm that it was her father. “Sweetie,” he said, “can we talk for a minute?”

It always pained Louise to talk to her father. When she had gone into hiding in her own mind, when she had become silent and brooding and brittle, it had hurt him most of anyone. She was his baby, and they had had a special rapport. He may not have had a favorite among his three children, but she was his favorite to be with.

They were diametric opposites. Bob Belcher: laconic, stolid, sentimental; Louise: volatile, prone to malicious glee but a softie deep down (don't tell anyone – she'll cut you). Bob tempered Louise's worst tendencies without effacing her, Louise drew Bob out and engaged his taste for fun and the absurd. They _got_ each other. The extent to which Louise had understood her father as a young child, had been able to press his buttons and communicate with him when the rest of his family could not, had been positively preternatural. Bob's grasp of Louise's complicated psyche was less intellectual, but just as deep.

Now she was all but lost to him. He knew she still loved him – Louise was careful to dole out the occasional secret smile or tender expression – but the little girl he adored had died, and he was in as much a state of grief over his loss as she was over hers. Louse knew this, and her heart ached for him. But it was a feeling she had to suppress, like so many others.

Still, she could at least use this opportunity be kind. “Sure,” she called back. Her father crouched to enter the tiny room – it had been designed as a storage space, but Louise had insisted on making it her own. He sat on the floor by his daughter's bed and smiled. They talked so rarely now; their conversations were special occasions.

“So you made a friend? That's progress” he said.

Louise rolled her eyes. “I don't need to progress. Besides, he's more of an acquaintance.”

_He,_ thought Bob. That was significant, but he knew better than to address that particular subject with his daughter directly. “So, what was so interesting about them that you followed them home from school?” It took some effort for Bob to avoid gendered pronouns, but he felt it was better to be safe than sorry. His daughter had more triggers than the Michigan Militia's storage shed.

“He's weird enough to be mildly entertaining, that's all.”

Bob didn't want to pry – well, he wanted very much to pry, but knew better. There were so few safe subjects. In the end, all he could do was to make one of his periodic attempts at a heart to heart talk.

“Louise, you have to talk about it some time. It's the only way you can let it go and move on.” He could see her shields going up, but soldiered on. “I... I miss you.” There was more to say, so much more, but he didn't want to push his luck. He let the statement hang in the air in the hope that Louise would, for once, respond, rather than turn away and dismiss him.

“I know, Dad. I know. And I miss you, too. But I can't talk about it. Not yet, maybe not ever. It's just... I can't.”

It wasn't the response he'd been hoping for, but it was a response, which was significant by itself. “I understand,” he said.

She did not object as he tenderly stroked her hair. Under the peculiar terms of their momentary detente, neither was free to express how much the gesture meant to them. “Get some rest, kiddo,” said Bob.

He left quietly. Louise waited until the door was closed behind him before crying silently into her pillow.

Alex Goldenberg was a dead man. Alicia Goldenberg? Well, she was just doing her job. Life in prison.

How dare they? Did it even occur to them that her defenses were in place for a reason? She hadn't done it on a whim. It was necessary for her survival. With the best of intentions, they were killing her.

She couldn't afford this. If she let herself experience the full force of her guilt and regret over her exclusion of her father from her life and the pain it caused him, she could very well do something drastic. If she let herself experience the deep, soul-killing grief that lurked on the edge of her psyche every minute of every day; if she allowed her anger to coalesce back into that grief, she might...

She opened her secret compartment and retrieved her tools.


	9. Chapter 9

“Oh God, no! Oh, I'm so sorry... I can't even... I'm so, so sorry. If there's anything we can do... of course. Yes, I'll tell her.”

Linda hung up the phone and gasped for air. “Oh, Bobby, Bobby, it's horrible. What do we do?”

“Lin, what happened?” asked Bob, deeply worried.

“The worst thing ever.” Linda bawled uncontrollably. Gene sat still at the kitchen table, save for spitting out his morning eggs, which had turned sour in his mouth. He couldn't imagine what the “worst thing ever” might be, but he knew from his mother's wailing – not her usual, almost comical “waaaaaaaah,” that his insouciance and absurd sense of humor would not suffice here. He would not be able to deflect this. It was bad.

Tina's response was her characteristic “uhhhhhhhhhh,” only backed with far more genuine dread than usual.

“Lin, _what it it_?”

She could not speak the words aloud. She choked off her sobs and whispered in her husband's ear. “Oh, my God,” he whispered back.

Tina, now certain that this was not one of her mother's hyperbolic reactions, segued into short, panicked exhalations. “Huh! Huh! Huh! Huh!” For the thousandth time, she wished she could figure out how to use her words in frightening situations.

Louise, roused by the commotion, padded sleepily into the kitchen in her old footie pajamas, and Bob and Linda froze in place. How could they tell her? What would they say? How could they cushion the blow?

There was no answer. Their baby's world was going to crash around her, and there would be nothing they could do to console her.

Louise read the room and snapped awake. What the hell was going on? Her parents had ceased all movement the moment she entered the room, deer in headlights. He mother's face was damp with tears. Her father was as upset as she'd ever seen him. She looked to Gene, who shook his head and shrugged almost imperceptibly. She looked to Tina, who had just intuited what had happened and burst into tears.

The question was almost on her lips: _who died?_

At light speed, she rifled through the list of possibilities in her mind. All of her grandparents had already passed. Was it Aunt Gayle? No, the reaction didn't fit? Her parents would not have frozen in tableau the moment she appeared; Mom would still be wailing, her father holding and consoling her.

The tableau, and her sisters tears, were for her and her alone. There was only one person it could be.

Louise's head swam and her heart pounded. “No,” she whispered, “no.” Then she found her voice. “No! It's not true! It's not! It can't be! He's not...” Hyperventilating, she could not speak for a moment. Gene realized what had happened and hugged Tina.

“Louise...” her mother began.

“Shut up! Shut up shut up shut up! You're lying! Why would you lie to me? I'll kill you! It's not true!”

Her father moved in her direction. He was going to hug her, like that would help.

“Don't touch me!” she screamed. Now she spoke in a low, dark growl they had never heard before. A dangerous sound. “Don't you dare touch me. Don't _touch_ me, don't _talk_. I'll kill you.”

She fell silent. Her family followed her orders, and waited, hearts broken, poised to step in the moment Louise allowed it.

Louise shook, gathering her strength to scream to the heavens. To rage at God for his cruelty or, as the case might well be, at the uncaring Universe. But the sound she released from her deepest self was a barely audible moan. If she hadn't still been standing up, her family would have been convinced it was her dying breath. A death rattle. The sound would haunt them to their graves.

She turned and sped back to her room and slammed the door. She heard the inevitable footsteps behind her and screamed. “Leave me alone! Don't come in! If anyone touches the _doorknob_ I will slit my own throat – I have a pocketknife! I'll do it!”

The footsteps stopped. Louise scanned her room, heart racing, still hyperventilating. Fight or flight. She had to do something. She had to _hurt_ something. Rudy was dead – surely of one final, massive asthma attack – and some part of the cold, murderous universe would have to pay.

She lunged for the Boyz 4 Now poster over her dresser and tore it down. She shredded it and crumpled the shreds in her hands. She tossed the crumpled mass to the floor and reached for her Totoro poster, which suffered the same fate. She swept her arm across the surface of the dresser and her dozens of anime figurines and bobble-heads toppled onto the area rug beneath. That wasn't satisfying enough, so she trampled them until every one was shattered or in shards that tore through her pajamas and cut her feet. She liked the feeling, and the red stains her bleeding feet left on the rug.

She rained framed photos on the carpet next to her bed, and stomped on them until the pain in her feet was powerful enough to slow down her rampage. She crawled over her bed to the other side of the room, where her stuffed animals lived. They died horribly, mutilated, with their stuffing torn out. She used the stuffing to staunch the blood seeping from her feet. That was going to hurt badly, for a long time. Good.

There was a knock on her door. “Go away!” she yelled, less forcefully than she had hoped.

It was Tina. “Louise, please, let me in. I promise I won't tell you he's in a better place, looking down on you and smiling or any of that stuff. No bullshit. Please.”

That got her attention: She'd never heard Tina swear before. Usually, the 17-year-old girl excused herself when she said “darn” in a raised voice.

Louise trusted Tina. Since hitting puberty, she'd gained a new respect for and understanding of her boy-crazy sister. They'd had girl-talks. Shared secrets. Two months previously, Tina had confided in Louise – and only Louise – that she'd lost her virginity to Jimmy Jr. – and that it had sucked because he wasn't good at it or a particularly caring lover. Three strikes (in that one night), and J-Ju was out. But she had high hopes for future trysts with other boys.

That was a lot to share with a 13-year-old – or anyone, really – and Louise appreciated it deeply. Tina was determined to guide her little sister through the minefield of adolescence, and that meant complete honesty. The whole truth and nothing but the truth. Louise would never admit it, but she had come to idolize her big sister.

She hated _everyone_ right now, but Tina she hated the least. “Come in and don't say anything,” she said.

Tina opened the door and immediately gasped at the small sliver of the room visible through the first inch-wide gap. She opened the door a bit further, gestured frantically at her parents and brother to stay back, slipped in, and shut the door behind her.

Louise need not have ordered Tina to remain silent. Surveying the damage, she could not even muster her usual low moan. It wasn't so much the complete destruction of every loose object in the room. She'd expected that. It was the bloody footprints.

She stared at her sister – first at her feet, their soles covered with blood-soaked cotton stuffing. Then, when the shock of that sight wore off, at her face. She expected Louise's visage to be tear-soaked and stricken beyond words. What she saw was worse.

It was rage. Infinite, cold rage. Her sister's eyes were dry, fathomless and dark. If they truly were the windows to her soul, then the house was empty. She was gone. Lost. Louise was looking directly at her sister, but peering far, far beyond her into the pitiless infinity of a universe that was empty save for what was surely a pulsating core of implacable malice. And she would stare it down until it gave her some answers.

Then she would kill it or die trying. Preferably both.

Tina stepped back, her shoes crunching on broken molded plastic. Louise returned her attention to what she had been doing before her sister had entered: sitting on the floor, repeatedly stabbing her plastic Kuchi Kopi night light with her pocket knife.

Tina sat gingerly on Louise's bed and surveyed the wreckage of her sister's childhood. Louise had been quite thorough, another sign, Tina thought, that she had been far more angry than hysterical or grieved. She was surprised Louise hadn't gone after her Kuchi Kopi linens with her knife; that was probably next, and they'd probably have to buy her a new mattress afterward.

“Louise,” she said.

Her sister was still murdering her night light. “Shut.” [stab] “Up.” [stab]

No. By allowing Tina in, Louise had tacitly agreed to a conversation. Tina continued. “I know there's nothing I can say – nothing anyone can say – to make this right, or to make it hurt any less. I'm not going to bullshit you and tell you it's going to be okay. It's not. It won't be, ever.”

Her sister, having stabbed her Kuchi Kopi to shreds, began ripping apart its remains. But she did not interrupt. Tina took this as a good sign.

“But _you_ will be. Not soon. Not for a while. Not for a long time, probably, but you will. Your friends will stick with you until you're ready to come back to Earth, and your crazy, annoying family will be here for you, no matter what. And I promise, I'll make sure that being here for you includes giving you space. I will personally see to it that Mom doesn't smother you; that Dad isn't over protective – well, not to your face; that Gene doesn't... I don't know, whatever Gene tries to do that isn't helpful. And I will be available every moment of every day, no matter what, but I'll also leave you alone, and I swear to fucking God I won't try to cheer you up.”

Louise was again startled. Tina Belcher dropping an f-bomb. The world had turned upside down.

Maybe that was it. She'd slipped into an alternate universe where Rudy was dead and Tina cursed like a sailor. Back in her home universe, Rudy was fine. That, at least... didn't help at all, actually.

Still, Cursing Tina had just gone above and beyond. She deserved a response.

“I'm never going to be alright, T. That's not a prediction, it's a promise. I won't allow it. I won't let it happen. I will feel this way as long as I live.”

“I know it feels that way right now, but...”

“No!” yelled Louise. “I'm not an idiot. I know what will happen. I'll be a wreck, for a long time. Then I'll spend a long time grieving. Then I'll come to a 'place of acceptance.'” She finger-quoted the last phrase. “I'll grow up, fall in love again, maybe a few times. I'll get married, have kids, a career, have a long, happy, satisfying, interesting life. Rudy will become a fond, wistful memory, someone I loved dearly as a child, but not as important as my husband and kids.” She vibrated, rage slowly returning “I'll get over Rudy – sure, I'll always be sad about him, but I won't be a sad person. I'll just be glad for the time we had together. That's how it works. I'm not stupid.”

Tina was impressed, if concerned – her sister was clearly approaching the breaking point again. “So... you understand all that. Is that... I mean, not emotionally right now, but just intellectually, is that so bad?”

“It's horrible! It's disgusting! There will be a time in my life when Rudy will have been gone – not just from me, but gone from the face of the earth – for ten, twenty, thirty years. Everything will just move on without him. He'll be a memory, and I'll be fine. It's wrong. It's grotesque!

“I won't let it happen, Tina. It's unacceptable. I won't let myself just fade into another life. He _was_ my life. Even if we weren't going to end up together – I'm not naive; most people don't marry the person they date in middle school – he should still have had a life himself. Wife, kids, career. We should have at least been old friends who meet every five or ten years at our high school reunion and reminisce about old times and laugh about how intense we were as kids, about our first kiss, about how I used to slap boys I liked, and how long it took me to outgrow it, like until my second husband. Or maybe we _would_ have gotten married and all of those other things would have happened...”

“Louise, please, don't just choose to have a horrible life here and now. I know you. You never change your mind. And I'm sorry, it's a huge cliché, but Rudy wouldn't want you to be miser...”

“I don't care what Rudy would want! _I_ want it. Because _fuck_ the universe for taking him from me. It can kill him, but it can't keep him. He's _mine!_ ” She pounded her fist on her night table, knocking over her lamp. Tina righted it.

Now Louise addressed the universe directly. “I won't let him go, do you understand? You can't have him! Fuck you! Fuck everything!”

She fell silent. Tina expected her sister to burst into tears at this point, but instead the cold rage returned. It frightened Tina to look at her, but she didn't look away. She allowed the silence to stretch on for as long as seemed necessary.

Finally, she said “do you want some help cleaning up?”

Louise shook her head.

“Look,” said Tina – realizing there was a more urgent issue, “we've got to get you to the clinic. Your feet are a mess.”

“No.”

“Louise, taking care of a serious injury doesn't mean you have to give up on your quest to never be happy again. Let this go and you'll have permanent scars.”

“I want scars,” whispered Louise.

“Fine,” said Tina, “but you don't want to get infected and die. You need a good, long life to cling to his memory, right. Infinite self-torture.”

“Fuck you.”

“I love you, too, sis. When you're ready to go to the clinic, let me know. I'll drive you.”

Tina left. Louise's feet burned and throbbed. She forced herself to sit still and experience every horrible sensation. Eventually, it was too much and she crawled to Tina's room and knocked on the door.

She needed 30 stitches, and would have to stay off her feet for two weeks. She decided that a lifetime of pain wasn't, in fact, a good idea.

Being completely numb, on the other hand, seemed very promising.


	10. Chapter 10

When Alicia arrived at Bob's Burgers, the Saturday lunch lull was in full effect. The restaurant was bereft of customers. Gene sat in the rear booth with his keyboard and a pile of fries. Bob and Linda argued behind the counter.

“She was born on a Saturday, Bob. Mothers remember that kind of thing. Saturday at 2 PM on the dot.”

“No,” said Bob. “I'm sure it was a Thursday. I remember thinking “Third-Child. Thursday. Third's-Day.” He chuckled. “Then I remembered there was that whole Monday's child, Tuesday's child thing, and wondering what it said about Thursday's child. I meant to look it up, but never did. I still don't know.”

“'Thursday's child,'” said Alicia, “'has far to go.'”

“Oh, thanks,” said Bob. “Um, sit anywhere...”

“Wait wait,” said Linda, eager to butt in. “Do you have a reservation? Ha! I've always wanted to use that line when the place was empty, but I keep forgetting. So many opportunities...”

Alicia sat at the counter and introduced herself, adding “you may have met my son yesterday.”

“Oh,” said Linda, delighted, “sure – the boy Louise was arguing with, right. Tall, glasses, nerdy... no offense.”

“None taken. We're very nerd-positive in our family. Anyway, I came by because I wanted to talk about Louise. She visited us yesterday and, well, I'm a psychologist, and I'm very worried about her. I gather she isn't being treated, and her issues are pretty severe.”

Bob sighed. “We've sent her to psychiatrists, but she won't take her prescriptions. Throws 'em down the toilet, She's gone to therapists, but she won't talk to them. She just sits there for the whole hour and doesn't say anything.”

“Our poor baby,” said Linda. “She's been a wreck since her little boyfriend died four years ago. They were so close, like since kindergarten. And he was such a sweetie. I swear, everyone knew they were gonna get married someday.”

Alicia nodded knowingly. The symptoms she'd observed – the anger and easily triggered dissociative episodes, most significantly – fit the PTSD diagnosis she had intuitively made. “I'm so sorry, that must have been awful. You know, I'm not her therapist and obviously she doesn't want one, but with your permission, I can try to draw her out when she comes over. Nothing confrontational. Just some subtle prodding. It would help her so much to open up.”

“That would be amazing,” said Bob. “Wait, wouldn't that be breaking some kind of psychologist law? Sorry, that was a dumb way to put it, but you know what I mean.”

Alicia smiled. “Don't worry. First of all, I have your permission; and I'm not actually going to be treating her, just applying my expertise to regular social interactions.

“I can't promise anything – she's pretty skittish – but I get the sense she's already starting to feel safe with us, despite herself. I...”

“Tina! That's right,” said Linda. “ _Tina_ was born on a Saturday...”

“'Works for a living,'” offered Alicia, unfazed at Linda's interruption.

“And Gene was born on a Sunday,” concluded Linda. QED.

“'And a child that's born on the Sabbath day is fair and wise and good and gay.'”

“Hey, what have you heard?” called Gene from his booth.

Gene openly dated both boys and girls. He was also exploring his gender identity, and handling it all with confidence and aplomb. For a kid with no direction in life, he was easily the most self-actualized member of the Belcher clan.

Bob chuckled. “So, what'll you have? I recommend the burger of the day: the “I'm O-kra, You're O Kale Burger. It's a burger topped with Kale with fried okra on the side. It's our healthiest burger.”

“Please tell me it's a veggie burger, because...”

“Nope,” said Bob, bristling slightly at the thought. “Pure grade-A grass-fed beef.”

“So it's a couple of kale leaves on top of a hunk of ground beef, and the okra pods are...”

“Deep fried, baby!” yelled Gene.

“Um, do you serve veggie burgers?” asked Alicia.

“Get out,” declared Bob, theatrically. After a dramatic pause, he added. “Just kidding. Was it funny? People say I need to develop a sense of humor at work.”

“Yeah,” said Alicia. Pretty funny. I mean, I wasn't sure you were kidding for a second, so kudos, but you should probably find a way to do that without actually scaring people away.”

“Yeah, Bob,” sniped Linda, “you should take some acting classes at the community college. Meanwhile, leave the theatrical stuff to me-eeeeeeeeeee!” She sang the last word, sliding up an octave from her speaking tone, and laying on the vibrato a bit thickly.

Alicia, sensing that Linda needed the approval, clapped. “Woo! What're doing here when you should be on Broadway?”

“I know, right?” agreed Linda.

After school, Louise found Alex sketching on the steps again, and by tacit agreement, they walked home together.

Also by tacit agreement, they had not spoken at school, had not eaten lunch together, had not looked at each other during the two classes they shared. At some point soon, their schoolmates would have something else to gossip about, and they could behave like human beings who knew each other again.

They walked in silence for some time. Louise had expected Alex to go into another long monologue about the universe and mathematics and geometry, but instead, he kept his head down and hugged his sketchbook to his chest. Louise had only known him for about 24 hours, but this was clearly completely out of character for him. He was tense, almost vibrating.

At the same moment Louise snapped at him – “what?” – Alex began “Look, I... what?”

Louise rolled her eyes. “You go.”

Alex took a deep breath. “My mom visited the restaurant today, and talked to your parents for a long time. She called me during lunch. I... I know.”

_Oh, no. No no no no no!_

Louise stopped moving. Great plumes of condensation spouted from her nostrils as she hyperventilated. _You don't_ _get to know what I think you know._ No one _does. They had no right to put the knowledge in your head, and you had no right to put the thought in mine._

_I'm dead. I'm fucking dead._

She vibrated like a tuning fork. There was murder in her eyes. And suicide.

Watching Louise quietly decompensate, Alex realized he'd made a severe miscalculation. After yesterday, he should have known better. His mother had warned him to keep it to himself, and that had been his intention. But he'd thought, better to get it over with, to just rip the bandage off quickly.

Bad call.

“What. Do. You. Know?” Louise growled. She knew the answer, but she saw the fright and regret in his eyes. She was going to make him say it.”

“I'm sorry, we should just drop...”

“What do you know?!” she screamed.

The only way out was through. “I... I know about Rudy.”

Louise exploded.

“Don't say his name! You don't get to speak it. He mine – no one else can have him, no one else gets to say it! My fucking parents. They _had_ to tell her, and she had to tell _you_! Of course, why not? You're supposed to save me.” Louise stepped up to him and pounded on his chest with gloved fists. “Fuck you! Fuck you! I'll kill you! He's mine! He's mine! I'll kill you!”

It worked the first time. Alex hugged her to him, struck by how tiny she was, lost in her heavy coat, and just how much rage could fit into so small a person.

She did not resist his embrace, but was still pounding on his chest. When she realized how ineffectual was that attack, she removed her gloves. But she did not make fists. She screamed and clawed at Alex's face, drawing blood.

His instincts told him to shove her to the ground and run, and never come within 20 feet of her again. He ignored his instincts, and kept her clutched to him. The scratches hurt, but he could tell they weren't deep. He let her keep scratching at him, but held her tighter, so she had less leverage.

She didn't manage to cut his skin again, but when her nails passed over existing cuts, pulling at the broken skin, it hurt like hell. She was still screaming at him. He listened for the words “let me go,” or similar phrases, but otherwise let the torrent of words wash over him. They were all variations on the same themes: Rudy was hers; no one else gets to say his name; fuck you; and death threats.

He accepted the stinging pain of his face. He was no masochist, but felt he probably deserved it.

Eventually, she ran out of words, ran out of energy. Now she was silently banging her head against his sternum – hard enough to make it difficult to breathe regularly. He expected to hear her quietly sobbing, but heard only the grunting sound in her throat as she breathed through her nose; but her breaths were now shallow. He could feel she was unsteady on her feet. He wanted to pick her up and carry her the rest of the way home, but that would probably look pretty weird – possibly unwholesome – to onlookers.

Instead, he put her down in a sitting position, back against the wall of the nearest storefront (Hannah and Her Scissors hair styling), and sat down next to her.

When he was sure she was steady, he asked “Um, are you here, or elsewhere?”

“Fuck you,” she replied, just barely audible. So: here. Good.

“You're probably tired of hearing me say this, but...”

“You're sorry,” said Louise, laughing bitterly. “You're so, so, sorry. Fuck you. Fuck you with a serrated dildo.”

Yep, he'd completely fucked up. Again. Predictably.

He noticed that Louise's face was dry. Cold anger twisted her features, and she stared into a bleak void. She had not shed a tear.

But apparently someone had to, because Alex – who hadn't cried for any reason in years – turned away from Louise and sobbed, back heaving, nose running. He hated himself. He'd known he was out of his depth, but hadn't realized by just how much. He was drowning, and worse, he was taking another human being down with him.

How could he not have learned anything from the previous day? Was he that stupid, or just an asshole? What the hell had he done?

At first, Louise assumed that Alex's tears were theatrics for her benefit, but when she saw him crawl at top speed over to a bit of shrubbery and vomit into it, she accepted his remorse as sincere.

Honestly, that had never been in question. She'd had no doubt the previous day that his apology was sincere and heartfelt; and now, he'd clearly realized the damage he'd done, and it pained him enough to make him puke. He sincerely cared about her.

But fuck him anyway. What, she was supposed to give him brownie points for being sorry for putting her through this? No. He dies. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon ( _and for the rest of his life_ ) she thought, completing the Casablanca quote.

Rudy.

The damage done, the wound reopened, she wanted, fuck it, to cry, to wail and gnash her teeth and have great, heaving sobs like Apology Boy over there. But she could not.

Had she ever cried for Rudy? Screamed and cursed and broken things, sure, but cried?  
  
Yes, yes, of course she had.

Not the first day or night after; not the week after, when they kept her home from school – she'd been almost completely silent that entire time, save for the occasional “yes,” “no,” “shut up,” or “fuck off.” Not on the walk to school her first day back.

It was not until she had set foot in Wilson Junior High School and attacked Chloe Barbash on sight – yelling incoherently, throttling her to within an inch of her life (even then somehow noticing the rich scent of a full bottle of shampoo on her hair) – and been pulled off of her by four fellow students and a security guard; not until the poor, puerile girl's blue skin began to return to its normal medium Caucasian did Louise, still held to the floor, now by two adults, cease writhing and struggling. She screamed, and began to sob uncontrollably.

The vice principal, who had watched over the whole scene with great concern after instructing his assistant to call the girl's parents, yelled at the security guard and the school counselor to roll her on her side immediately – he'd seen that she was about to vomit, which she did, copiously. When her stomach was empty, the retching continued, and she nearly passed out from the strain of the dry heaves.

Blearily, she wished for her brother and sister. In retrospect, if they'd been there to help and hold her at that moment, maybe she wouldn't have slammed shut completely. If she could have told them she loved them, right then, maybe she wouldn't have lost the ability to say the words, or feel the emotion, for years. But Gene and Tina were at Seymour's Bay High, half a mile away. Word had already gotten to the staff of the school, and in a moment, Louise's siblings would be called to the office and informed that their little sister needed them. Bob and Linda were already on their way, racing across town in their old station wagon.  
  
But the five minutes it took for Her parents and her siblings (driven by the school nurse) to arrive were five too many. When they found her, she was silent, sitting on the floor outside the principal's office, staring expressionlessly into nothing. Into the swirling, cruel dark void that would be, she'd decided, her only true companion from then on.

She stood and offered her hand to Alex, who took it gingerly for form's sake, but carefully avoided actually pulling on it – given their height difference, she had approximately negative leverage. He got himself to his feet, and looked at Louise quizzically. He could tell from her expression that the gesture had in no way signaled a truce.

“Come on, Stringbean. I'm going to kill you and then myself, and I know just the place to do it.”

_She might just be capable of actually, literally killing me,_ he'd thought the previous day. Was she speaking in hyperbole? He couldn't take the chance. He towered over her and outweighed her by maybe 60 pounds. But he didn't doubt for a moment that if she genuine wanted him dead, she'd find a way, and her bare hands might be involved.  
  
He let go of her hand. “This is stupid. You're not killing either of us today.”

Louise glared at him. She stared him down with the full force of the void in her soul. Or tried to. She'd hoped he would melt into a puddle on the spot, but he just smiled sadly and said “yeah. I get it. You think I haven't seen the Void before? That I haven't _been_ there?”

_Oh, come on. You can't actually be psychic, there's no such thing. And however you intuited it, I know for a fact that whatever you call a void ain't the one I've spent the past three years cozied up to._

He brushed himself off and continued toward their destination. She followed. This wasn't over.

“I used to have a big sister,” he said.

_Fuck. Do I let him tell me this story? Because we all know where it ends._

“She was 8, I was 7. I'm not going to bore you with all the stuff about how she was a beautiful, kind, tiny little ethereal angel. Let's just say you'd never believe I was related to her.

“September, ten years ago, she was diagnosed with stage 4 brain cancer. Two weeks later she was dead.

“In between, my mom kept reassuring her that she would be fine, that she was going to get better and, about hours before she died, when there was no point in lying anymore, that there was a heaven with clouds and angels and all of her dead relatives. She was going to love her great grandma so much.

“Of course, Mom didn't believe a word of it, but what do you say to a dying child?

“Well, if you're me, you give it to her straight at the first possible opportunity. And you talk with her about the stuff that matters – life and love and the happy times and how mom was lying because she loved her too much to face the truth herself. That she thought she was helping.

“She thanked me every day for my honesty. She was so brave. She put on a show for Mom – a Great Performances-level turn as Blissfully Ignorant Dying Child for nine days.” Now Alex was the one beginning to hyperventilate, and he struggled to resist tear and to turn his gaze away from the void. “I was so proud of her, and felt so guilty. I watched her gradually fade away – physically, not mentally. She was all there, just more and more weak. Toward the end, she could barely speak. At first I tried to fill in the gaps; I'd chatter away at her, holding her hand. The last few days, I just crawled into he hospital bed with her and held her.

“I would just stare into her eyes, and she would stare back. I think we managed to communicate... something that way, I don't know what. But a lot of the time, she wasn't even really there. That's when I first made the acquaintance of the Void. I don't know what your void looks or feels like, but hers, mine, is a dark tunnel defined by clouds of even darker darkness.

“It's the tunnel you pass through – or think you pass through – when you die, but that one is full glowing light and dearly departed friends. But when you _want_ to die, when you _need_ to die because life is too awful, the tunnel is dark and roiling and terrifying, yet strangely, desperately compelling. You want to jump in and follow whatever or whoever it is you've lost.”

He grabbed Louise's shoulders and turned her to face him. “Rudy's not at the end of the tunnel, Louise. No one is. Nothing is. There _is no tunnel_. There is no Void. It's just your mind trying to encompass a loss it can't comprehend.” Louise stared up at Alex's strangely beautiful – though also still ugly – face, mesmerized. Yes, she knew all this. But hearing someone else say it electrified her. And hear it from someone who had been there, who knew the Void as well as she, gave it solid form. Gave it the power to affect her, to just possibly, maybe, change her behavior.

He might actually know the Void _better_ than her. She hadn't watched Rudy die, had refused to go to the funeral. Alex had stared the Void in the eyes for ten straight days as his sister – his _sister_ – had died slowly over ten days right in front of him.

If she'd gone through the same thing with Gene or Tina, would be as much of a functional human being as Alex? The thought of standing over her big sister's death bed made her want to grab one of Alex's drawing implements, shove it into one ear, and keep pushing until it came out the other.

How do you deal with losing your big sister like that when you're 7?

Right: you become a rescuer. Maybe if you find someone even more broken than you, and fix them, you'll learn how to fix yourself in the process. And if not, it's still one less broken person in the world, which, if you're kind and empathetic, is its own reward.

She had a million thing to say to Alex, some kind, some angry, some demanding, some genuinely confused. What came out as she stood on her toes to stroke one of his injured cheeks, not out of tenderness, but to survey the damage, was “let's go to your place. I want to see a picture of her.”


	11. Chapter 11

The portrait was not as accomplished or confident as Alex's more current work, but it was pretty damned amazing for a ten year old.

“It's my first portrait. I drew it from memory – from the memory of lying on the bed with her, staring into her eyes. Into... into the Void. My mom saw it and screamed, then cried for hours. I think showing it to her may have been the cruelest thing I ever did, though obviously that wasn't the intention.”

Louise was in tears looking at the drawing herself. It was a close-up view of a child's face as seen by another child sharing the same pillow. The the girl's features were almost painfully beautiful. Exquisite. That part shouldn't have mattered – the portrait would be equally sad if it were of an ugly child. Wouldn't it? Louise hoped so.

But that wasn't it. There was something... the girl looked content, at a glance, as she must have been when communing with her little brother. But there was something about the eyes. Of course – they were looking past the observer, into the Void.

_I've seen those eyes before_ , thought Louise. Before she could ask herself where, she knew.

On her own portrait. The one she'd torn up.

They were in Alex's room, he sitting on his bed, she on his desk chair.

“Your poor mom. It's killing _me_ to look at this, and I didn't even know her.”

Alex nodded. “I find it hard to look at myself. As you saw, I keep it buried pretty deep.”

Louise put the portrait down carefully on Alex's desk, wiped her eyes, and glared at him. “So, got any insights to share about it? Did you notice anything about it that stood out for you that might not have maybe a week ago?”

Alex half smiled ( _god, he's cute when he does that_ , thought Louise. _Oh, for fuck's sake!_ she chastised herself.) and bowed his head. “So you saw it, too.”

“Yeah, and I don't appreciate you drawing me with your sister's eyes. It's disrespectful of both of us.”

Alex put his hands on his hips. He really was tired of her prickliness. Unfortunately, he noticed, it also turned him on with a vengeance. “You know that's not what happened. Those weren't her eyes on your portrait, they were yours. They just had the Void in common. Probably that's what drew me to you so powerfully. Simple transference. If I could save you, then in some way I'd be saving her. I'd be conquering the Void. The ultimate rescue, right?”

“Has it occurred to you that the one who needs rescuing is you? You put on a good show, but you're as fucked up as I am.”

Alex grinned. “More,” he said. “I actually think that saving people will bring my sister back. On some level – I'm not insane. And I really do like helping people just to help them. But yeah, I'm kind of like a skydiver with no parachute who thinks if just grabs on to that other guy without a chute, they'll both be fine.”

Louise laughed – a genuine, non-sarcastic, non-bitter laugh. She'd not heard herself make that sound in a long time.

Alex broke into that goddamned sweet, compassionate smile and shook his head. “Well how about that. You're even more beautiful when you're happy.”

_Alert! We are at Def-Con 1, people, Def-Con... no, wait. Are we?_ Louise knew she was going away again, but she had to work through this.

_I mean, is there a point now? The truth has come out, and, not fer nothin' , Louise, you survived. Maybe it's time..._

– _But RUDY!_

_Rudy's dead. He's fucking dead and you can't bring him back by never dating any more than Alex can bring his sister back by rescuing you._

_Case in point, his sister is still dead._

– _So you're saying he did rescue me?_

_To the extent that it's possible. Listen to me – and by me, I mean yourself._

– _Yeah, I get it. I've had internal dialogues before. Get on with it._

_Fine. Rudy's never coming back. Never ever. And that's never going to feel right. It will always be a cruel, horrible, unacceptable crime against humanity by the cold, uncaring universe. There will always be a Rudy-shaped hole in your heart. Nothing – not even holding on forever to the pain you felt at the worst moment of your life – with fill that hole. It will always be there, making you darkly, mysteriously fascinating and giving you all sorts of character and wisdom and stuff._

_But your heart... no, fuck the metaphor, your mind. Our mind. Us. Me. You. Whatever. Your mind can heal around his absence. You can function like a normal human being. You can be happy. So happy you'll feel guilty for it, and suddenly get all depressed and broody, and no one will get why. But you'll get through it and go back to having good times again. And being moody and unpredictable. And fascinating and infuriating._

_Rudy would..._ she flinched, afraid of herself for having the thought, worried that she might receive a slap from herself for even suggesting it.

Sweet Jesus, she was a basket case.

She soldiered on. _Rudy would want that for you. He would want you to be happy. There it is, biggest cliché in the dead loved ones biz. He would be so pissed at you for wasting three years of your life insisting on being miserable in his name. Snap the fuck out of it. Actually, you already have._

– _So, what, like now everything's fine, just like that, huh?_

_Oh, hell no. It's going to take years to heal from the damage you've done to yourself. Mentally_ and _physically, Miss Cuts Herself Every Time Something Bugs Her Enough, Esq. You need to work on yourself, and boy, is it ever going to suck. Getting better is going to be harder than being sick._

_But one thing that could cushion the blow is a boyfriend who gives great hugs and completely understands what you're going through. And who needs your help to heal as much as you need his._

– _And who I'm not physically attracted to? Like, at all?_

_Oh, come on, you are, just a tiny bit, once in a while. Under certain lighting conditions._

– _That's not exactly a dazzling Yelp review. Like maybe half a star._

_Fine. Go find some other guy who's stared down the Void. And who completely gets you and is in love with you_ anyway _._

– _You think he's in love with me?_

“Louise? You okay? I _know_ you went away that time.”

“No,” said Louise. “I am not even remotely okay. I'm not going to be okay for a long time. But...” _Fuck it. In for a penny..._ “if you're willing to keep rescuing me, I'll see if I can return the favor.”

“That's... that's great. Really. I look forward to a rich and rewarding professional association.”

_Jeez, dude, could you hint a little harder? I don't think they noticed over at Wonder Wharf._ “We don't have to keep it... I mean, you... I... Look, I'm not particularly attracted to you, okay. I mean maybe, just barely, a little bit. But who knows, maybe if you work your wiles on me long enough... That is... I mean... Fuck it, how about a date? Are you free Friday night?”

The expression on Alex's face... was precisely the one Rudy wore, oblivious to his face turning purple, at the catastrophic end of their otherwise amazing first makeout session: pure, idiotic, poor-survival-behavior happiness. For a moment, it pleased her to see Rudy's face reflected in Alex's. Then it was too much.

_I just said goodbye to you in my heart for the first time, and you've got to pop back up on some other guy's face thirty seconds later? Are you fucking serious?_

There was no sense of transition from one moment to the other. She was sending Rudy bad vibes for his tasteless sense of humor, then she was listening to Alex's frantic voice from a thousand miles away.

“Louise! Louise! Dammit!” It figured. He actually got his “yes” from Louise – naturally, one of them was going to keel over dead the next second.

Obviously, Louise was not dead, but did she really have go catatonic right then? And what brought it on this time?

Louise opened her eyes, and Alex saw it immediately. Or rather, he didn't see it: the Void. For the moment, at least, it was gone from her eyes. He knew better than to think he'd vanquished it forever, but just at the moment, he'd done something right. Or at least appropriate. Or maybe he'd just managed to follow the Hippocratic oath for ten minutes in a row and done no harm.

“Hi,” said Louise, smiling up at her big, ugly boyfriend – who just at that moment seemed marginally less ugly.

“Hi,” said Alex, still wearing that same, too dumb to live blue-in-the-face-Rudy expression. “You know what? Dates are for civilians. We're artists.” _We are?_ thought Louise. Does he know something I don't, or is he just using the royal “we”?

“And screw Friday night. How about we start right now?” he continued.

“Okay,” said Louise, a little unclear and still dizzy. “What do artists do instead of going on dates?”  
  
“They do art,” said Alex. “I'm gonna to paint you. Come on...” Alex stood and headed for his studio, rather unchivalrously leaving Louise to decide whether to follow him. Or maybe it _was_ chivalrous, actually.

“Alright,” said Louise, standing. “But I want the 'young Elvis' version of me. The happy one.”

Alex turned around to face her. “What else would it be?” he said.


End file.
